


Christmas Dinner

by isshi69nikkei



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Comedy, First Kiss, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8943037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isshi69nikkei/pseuds/isshi69nikkei
Summary: Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes hate Christmas and don't want to celebrate it but Sebastian and John will change their plans ;)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Świąteczna kolacja](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463458) by [isshi69nikkei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isshi69nikkei/pseuds/isshi69nikkei). 



> Christmas Dinner is a fanfic I wrote last year in Polish and didn’t plan to translate it but... I did ;) Forgive me all the grammar and stylistic faults, my English is medium at most. If anything looks really bad don’t hesitate to correct me in the comment:)

***

Jim have been trying to work since morning. He sat in the living room with a laptop on his knees and a blanket on his shoulders; back to the window, because seeing freezing sleet outside would ruin his mood. Within his reach stood a thermos of hot tea with cloves and cinnamon and a plate of spicy cookies – both had been left here by Sebastian who had been peeking at him suggestively back then but Jim ignored him. Now he wanted to asked the man what his problem was or kick up a fuss since the man was driving him crazy: he was wandering around the apartment carrying some dusty boxes and packages and every time he got near Jim he made sure his boss noticed him. He was putting the wood in the fireplace, cleaning up, which only made the room messier, and moving furniture. When Jim was close to order him to get out of here and to find some male or female friend who could use his fidgetiness in a bedroom – Sebastian went to the hallway and started putting on warm clothes while singing something completely out of tune. Fortunately, few moments later he left their house and there was a silence, at last.

Jim sighed in relief and looked around the room which became a strange mess but he decided to ignore it. He glanced at the computer screen one more time, waiting for a message concerning his client’s escape to the Canada; the woman wanted to run away from her shuffler-husband in debt and she promised Jim mountains of gold from her massive inheritance from her grandparents for a new identity.

_I agree to all the conditions, Mr Moriarty. But let’s move it a couple of days, because my husband will be suspicious if I don’t appear at Christmas dinner. I told them I’m visiting Spa with my friend after holidays, as every year, and that’ll be the safest date to break free from these harpies._

Christmas dinner! Well, that explained a lot. Ordinary people and their ordinary daily affairs, their boring, sad lives in which they waited for the weekends, hated Mondays, paid off mortgages and counted days until Christmases, birthdays, anniversaries and death. Today was December 24th so it was _obvious_ that ordinary people was thinking about belly-worship, fake hugs with relatives they hated, frantically packed gifts and all that sentimental bullshit. The last decade of December was a time of the year when all the businesses died, because somehow there wasn’t many people who felt like killing and doing scam. Besides, you didn’t need consulting criminal to break into empty house which owners were visiting their family on the other side of the country.

He blankly picked up a cookie and only now he realised that it was in the shape of Christmas tree and decorated with icing that looked like glass balls. He pursed his lips and looked around more carefully; from one of the boxes Sebastian had brought shiny garland stock out, inside the second one he saw some plastic poinsettias and wreaths. Here and there unplugged tree lights laid and at the corner of the room a heap of cheap magazines and cooking books was scattered. Jim peeked at the titles on the covers and flinched when he saw _100 tips on how to decorate the festive table_ – he would never suspect his sniper of owning… such things. Well, he knew that Sebastian sometimes was sentimental, that he still visited his relatives and old friends on various occasions and celebrated nonsense such as birthdays but… over the years of knowing each other Jim hadn’t seen him on Christmas even once and he hadn’t supposed that the sniper was going to celebrate this one with _him_. Nor that he was going to celebrate it in his… no, in _their_ house, since few months ago Sebastian ended up with popping in and out few times a week and moved in, _just like that_.

He tried to go back to work, scrolled old e-mails, answered some of them and after an hour he finally got the message from his client, whom, asked about details, wrote something about baking cookies with her mother-in-law and promised to contact him in the evening. Sudden wave of anger made Jim saw red and he felt that the only thing that could calm him was sending a message to one of his henchmen with an order to break his client’s neck. He probably would have done it and he already had a phone in his hand, when he heard terrible rumble from the entrance that preceded a slam of the door and a series of curses; then heavy footsteps and the sound of shuffling followed… as if Sebastian was pulling something huge, heavy and extremely unwieldy.

 _I hope it’s not a corpse_ he thought and moment later he glanced toward the hallway and saw… the top of the Christmas tree. Enormous, living tree which was still humid and dirty and which was dropping needles, certainly – full of worms and mud. If he didn’t intervene his living room would become a filthy den and _that_ he would not survive. The Christmas tree was being moved inch by inch and from between the branches Sebastian emerged, chugging and heated. He tried to show some enthusiasm by singing some carol, even though the needles was lashing him with every movement.

“What’s that?” Jim asked coldly, when the man lugged the three meters high tree in the living room and started turning it vertical.

“Are you serious?” he asked and laughed loudly seeing his face expression. “I’m staying here for Christmas, so…”

“I do not want to see this eyesore in my living room. Get it out of here” he ordered and tried to pretend he was going back to work.

“Sorry, Jim, but it’s Christmas time. And I like Christmas” he said, ignoring Jim’s murderous glance. He started singing something which lyrics indicated it was supposed to be _Last Christmas_ but the melody sort of resembled _Jingle Bells_. “The eyesore is staying” he announced after he had placed the Christmas tree in the corner of the room and fastened it on crooked tripod.

“I hate you and if I ever decide to behead you I will gut you and stuff with _the eyesore’s_ needles first.”

“Can you give me the tree lights?” Sebastian asked and smiled broadly. Jim snorted with anger, closed his laptop and put it under his arm. Before going upstairs to his bedroom, he had scooped plate and thermos from the table and glared at Sebastian one last time.

He laid on his bed and it took him few minutes to realise that he was devouring Christmas cookies one by one because of anger; he almost choke when he noticed that one of them, the gingerbread man, was decorated with icing which formed suit’s outline and a caption _Jimmy_ on its right hand.

When he found a smiling gingerbread man with Santa hat, military uniform and a gun, he started eating with biting its head off.

***

Sherlock had been playing ignoramus because it was the only way to copy with John’s and Mrs’ Hudson Christmas fever. He jest behaved as if he didn’t see all the preparation: he got a case – it had been the first time in his whole life when he had left home for poor _three_ – and when he came back he ensconced himself in the bedroom, stating that he needed to contemplate alone. It wasn’t easy task _not to notice_ all those fripperies, wreaths and yet undecorated Christmas tree but he knew that if he peeked at any of them John would try to force him to help with the arrangements.

The whole apartment and the staircase were filled with the scent of cinnamon and vanilla so it was clear Mrs Hudson had already started baking cakes. Even Sherlock’s bedroom smelled unearthly but he decided that going to his landlady and asking her _what the occasion was_ would be too much – his desire for sweets wasn’t pressing enough to pay for it with a housework. Stepping out of the room, one careless word…! And his landlady together with John would start forcing him to clean, so that he couldn’t let them discover he knew full well that the Christmas was coming.

He tried to find some cases worth considering on his mailbox, to spend the evening solving them and emerge from his bedroom when his roommate goes asleep, but, as if out of spite! There was nothing interesting and when he tried to contact some of those boring and obvious clients – they wrote back that they were out, with their family or on Christmas holiday… or they didn’t wrote back at all. Some of them gave him sentimental wishes and one woman asked _if she could become his Snowflake_. He casted his phone aside in horror. Snowflake…! He didn’t want to know what she meant but the statement itself gave him the chills.

Sherlock started scrolling information portals hoping to find _anything_ that could keep his mind occupied but they were filled with trivial news. The Mayor of London turned on the Christmas lights in the city centre, the most frequently bought presents were perfumes, cosmetics and electronics and the trendiest wreaths’ colour this year were cream and lilac. He was turning websites down so fast that at some point he inadvertently clicked a link with a film about baking perfect fruitcake and then – on playlist with Christmas hits which shut down his laptop and the horrible music which stopped only after he turned the computer down with a Power button.

He was so desperate that he wrote a messages to Lestrade and Molly almost begging them to give something, _anything_ , even the silliest case – but it turned out that both of them had a day off and they were already running through the city, settling the last errands. Moreover, Lestrade asked which sweater John would like better: yellow or black-green and Molly – if it would be right to buy Greg a perfume.

Sherlock was terrified. It was impossible to get away from it…! He replied to Lestrade, telling him that both colours are good-for-nothing and advised him blue or écru; he was considering answering Molly as well but he decided not to. He didn’t understand all those _is it right or not_ and besides, for god’s sake, he had no idea who _Greg_ was. Hiding in mind palace seemed to be the only way to escape from it all but before he succeeded in doing so his mobile started ringing. When he saw Lestrade’s number he answered, hoping that maybe somebody decided to murder someone for Christmas after all. And he immediately regretted that he was so naïve.

“Sherlock, I couldn’t find any blue sweater and I have no idea what…” he stumbled “ee-kra is.”

“Écru” he said with exasperation and groaned when he heard that someone knocked on the door. A moment later John appeared in the doorway, wearing rubber gloves, with his hands on his hips and disgruntled face expression. 

“Écru” Lestrade repeated. “ _Amazing_ , but I still don’t _what does it mean_ and I’m too embarrassed to ask the assistant.”

“That’s French word which originally meant natural wool that has been neither bleached nor dyed, and hence also the colour of natural…”

“Sherlock, what does it look like!” he hissed desperately.

“It’s darker than ivory and champagne but lighter than khaki… similar to light grey but more yellowish-pink.”

“You’re telling me I’ve got to buy him _yellowish-pink_ sweater?”

“No! Écru is light beige and beige is light brown, for god’s sake, don’t you know the colours?” he asked angrily and peeked at John, who was pouting and shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “I’ve got to go. You’ll handle it.”

„If he doesn’t like it you’ll be wearing it” Lestrade muttered. “Well, see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow…?” Sherlock asked in amazement but the man on the other side had already disconnected. “John, why does Lestrade want to see me tomorrow? He told me he didn’t have any cases which…

“We invited him to dinner. _Christmas dinner_ ” he answered with emphasis and shook a rubber he was holding.

“Oh…” he said slowly. “Well, he is buying you a sweater” he added after a while.

“Christmas gifts should be a _surprise_ ” John sighed, rolling his eyes. “Meanwhile, you are _surprised_ that we are expecting guests and I’m sure you haven’t bought a present for anyone.”

“My presence will be sufficient gift for everybody. Oh, and a surprise too” he said, which made John gasp.

“Sherlock…” he groaned. “Get to work. We’ll give them my presents as _ours_ , since you didn’t give a shit about buying anything.”

“Why would I…” he became silent when John threw him a rubber and cleaning spray.

“Enough. Clean all the doors and take care of the mess you left in the kitchen” he ordered him, withdrawing from the bedroom. “And throw out the grey gloop from the fridge. I don’t need to know what it is but it looks like pudding and I’d rather not have our guests poisoned.”

“John… I guess I do not want Christmas…” he murmured staring at the cleaning equipment with disgust.

“Well, _genius_ , you’ve got the whole year to invent a time machine so that you’ll be able to teleport from December 24th straight to the New Year” he said and then he gestured towards the living room and didn’t move until Sherlock got out of the bed and reluctantly followed him, shambling and pouting.

 

***

Within three hours of sulking, Jim run out of cookies and tea but his clients still didn’t contact him and didn’t want any killings. The only e-mails he was getting were advertisement from online shops in which he was asked if he had already bought Christmas gifts for his loved ones. He stared at the one from sex-shop in which he – for a case, _of course_ – had once bought some gadgets. A handsome, muscled blond wearing Santa hat and red thongs was holding a dildo that was just as red and he was smiling flirtatiously, showing his white teeth.

He peeked at the door behind which muffled sound of Christmas songs was audible and then he clicked the link and spent the whole fifteen minutes watching the store inventory. He was only watching! He was not going to buy anything. He didn’t need any ridiculous outfits for angels, elves nor Santa… he didn’t need the reindeer horns nor handcuffs with a white plush nor… he moved away from the screen. Nor a dildo in Christmas lollipop’s shape and colours. It was too much and he decided that watching Sebastian who was surely cleaning or decorating Christmas tree would be less disgusting. Or maybe he was baking a new cookies…? However their shape was embarrassing, they were delicious. _Had been_ delicious since he ate them all.

He turned down the sex-shop page and then he left his room, heading towards the stairs; when he reach its top the laptop almost felt from his hands. He had been away only for a few hours and it was enough for Sebastian to make their apartment look like a different place. Colourful lights were affixed to everything: his elegant, expensive furniture, pictures’ frames, fireplace, doorframes, curtains and balustrade. Shiny garlands and boxes of Christmas balls were scattered everywhere while decorated wreaths were placed on every available flat surface. As if that was not enough, the room smelled with heavy scent of cinnamon candles and twenty-five year old Mariah Carey in the TV was singing that _all she wanted for Christmas was you_.

Sebastian was nowhere to be seen but Jim heard him in the kitchen. The man was singing… _something_. Totally out of tune and out of beat and parts of lyrics which he didn’t mistake nor make up indicated that he tried to hum with the famous diva. The result was such appalling that Jim started stepping back to his bedroom but then… his nostrils were filled with a sweet smell of pastries. He couldn’t resist. He started going down the stairs, watching his feet to avoid tripping over the lumber scattered here and there. When he reached the living room, the smell of pastries mixed up with the aroma of good whisky, marzipan, spices and dried fruits and Jim realised he started salivating, wishing to devour all these treats _right now_.

His appetite couldn’t be decreased by crooning Sebastian nor the eyesore-Christmas-tree for now decorated only with the lights. He might consider Christmas a nonsense but those smells and the promise of flavours...! He hadn’t eaten homemade pastries for ages and those from confectionery couldn’t compete with them, they didn’t smell that good and besides – he would have to leave the house to get them and leaving the house on December 24th meant seeing lots of idiots overwhelmed by Christmas fever, while Sebastian was only _one_ idiot and…

Sebastian. Wearing Santa hat, same as the one the model with dildo had. Sebastian in tight-fitting jeans and women’s apron, rolling the sheet of marzipan out on the pastry board… wait, when the hell did they get _a pastry board_? Seeing Jim, Sebastian smiled broadly, stared at him for a moment too long and the result was that his hands went too far and reached the edge of the table; the rolling pin fell from his hands and loudly hit the floor. Jim raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment his sudden clumsiness, so untypical for a sniper. He looked around the kitchen and the first thing he saw was amazingly brown Christmas cake, which smelled deliciously of whisky and spices. Sebastian must have been feeding it at intervals with whisky in secret and now he took it out to decorate it with marzipan. In the oven mincemeat pies were baking while the leftovers of delicacies mixed with dried fruits were put down in the pot. Jim put his laptop aside, took a wooden spoon and, ignoring  Sebastian, who was smoothing the apron nervously, tasted the mixture which already cooled down. He was close to purring with pleasure but his dignity didn’t let him do that, especially since he still remember that Sebastian humiliated him by decorating a cookie as _Jim Moriarty, the criminal consultant_.

“Do you like it?” the man asked, staring at him like a puppy waiting for a titbit.

“It’s ok” he replied dryly and then he put another spoonful into his mouth. And another. And one more, doing so with such force that the wood painfully hit his lower teeth.

“There’s more in the jars I already bottled and…”

“Give me” he ordered, being absolutely sure that if he didn’t get more of this deliciousness he would lick the pot off. His hands were shaking when Sebastian was unscrewing a jar which had just been bottled but he managed to control himself and took a tiny silver spoon instead of gobbling the whole contents.

“Maybe you’ll like the Christmas after all?” Sebastian joked, throwing the rolling pin into the sink, which was already filled to the brim.

“You’ve got to be kidding” he said; he couldn’t _snarl_ at Sebastian even though he deserved it if he decided to make fun of him… but at the same time he was feeding him with such delights. Still, the blond looked wounded when he started decorating Christmas cake with the marzipan.

“It’s a shame, because those who don’t like Christmas aren’t getting any cake” he stated, tightening the edges. “And you know what? That’s a secret recipe which my grandmother…

“Sebastian?” Jim interrupted. ”If you turn the TV volume down, clean the living room and make coffee truffles instead of the pudding which I detest I will consider _not hating_ them anymore.

“White or dark chocolate? Sebastian asked innocently.

“Make both” he said and took another spoonful of the dainty which made _Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer_ sounded almost like Bee Gees, Christmas mess seemed a little less _messy_ and Sebastian wasn’t a nitwit in woman’s apron anymore but a model from sex-shop website.

“And then... will you let me put up a mistletoe?” he asked, faking innocence _again_. Jim gave him a pitying look and smiled coldly.

“Don’t push your luck and get to work. You don’t have much time” he said and looked at the mincemeat filling in the jar. Sebastian laughed sonorously, when Jim started eating again and he was still giggling while going back to decorating Christmas cake with a marzipan.

Jim finished the jar quickly and when he put it away, a cup of cinnamon tea was placed in front of him; he didn’t thank Sebastian but started observing him more closely and suddenly he realised that watching his sniper puttering around the kitchen is strangely… _enjoyable_. The sweets and the whole atmosphere put Jim in such conciliatory mood that he followed Sebastian into the living room, sat on the sofa and let the man continue adorning the place. The sniper hummed from time to time as if he just couldn’t resist when he heard a song he liked on the TV but Jim… even though he felt like chiding him, he was silencing himself with more spicy cookies – it turned out that there was more of them in the cupboard - every time Sebastian’s singing became too much.

He was looking at the laptop screen but every now and then he glanced at Sebastian with a corner of his eye and he still couldn’t believe this was the same guy who earned a living being a _hit man_. Jim was sure hit men _rarely_ sang whereas Sebastian _did_ right now: something about _mistletoe and wine_ and then – about writing a letter to Santa and _being so good this year_. Jim almost choked when he heard the last one, especially since his sniper entered into the lyrics and seemed to knew them well… even though the melody still resembled _Jingle Bells_.

“Sebastian” he spoke up when the ads started “You’re not baking gingerbread men in suits in the next portion” he finished, staring at the last cookie shaped and decorated like that.

“Absolutely” Sebastian said and then he pulled out a large, brocaded trash from a box of baubles; it was clearly made on request because it had red apples stamped on both its sides.

Jim would throw the jar he was holding on Sebastian but he decided that wasting its contents would be greater crime than all he had committed in his life altogether. And that was the moment he fully realised that he was staying in his beautiful house with the murderous sniper who was baking him cookies, decorating the living room and singing Christmas songs… and that said sniper was doing all of this just for the two of them and they _really_ was going to spend the Christmas together. With nobody else, since whom could they invite…?

He was so shocked and terrified with the conclusion that when Sebastian started putting up the mistletoe he couldn’t say a word about it - even though he was threatening him in his mind that if he tried to grab him under one of those, the twig would be pushed in his asshole and pulled out of his throat.  

***

Sherlock could run in the frost or heavy rain for hours, hunt the criminals in stinky holes or play embarrassing roles such as womanizer, shy romantic or priest but the role of ordinary man who is cleaning his place before Christmas ended up being too much for him. Apparently he wasn’t useful at all – John’s words – but even simple pottering around the house with a rubber in his hand without doing anything with it seemed to be the most tiring, boring and pointless activity he had ever performed. Did it _really_ matter if there was a little bit of dust on the shelves and some ash spilled out of the fireplace after he had thrown his experiments from the fridge – they were a bit stale indeed – into the fire? None of this was worth all the screaming and complaining he endured, especially since he eventually got rid of the stuff that bothered John so much.

He slumped on a bed worn to a frazzle and miserable, he closed his eyes… and after what seemed like few seconds he opened them back, realizing that it was already morning. He blinked few times, since he couldn’t believe he really fell asleep from exhaustion and that he had only few hours before the guest would arrive. _The people_! In his beloved flat, all the crowds that he would have to entertain… ok, _tolerate_ and not be too obnoxious. Maybe calling their guests _a crowd_ was a slight exaggeration since the only people invited were Lestrade and Molly… but, still. Two persons too much. Oh, his brother had probably been invited by John too but Sherlock didn’t count him because he was sure that Mycroft wouldn’t come – he was surely stuck in MI6 headquarters after he had found himself a task such as _checking financial reports from the last_ _quarter_ … or something equally tedious and unnecessary. Anyway, John invited him and Mycroft courteously replied that he would come if he found the time. Sherlock rarely envied his brother but right now he did: because Mycroft wasn’t forced to be here and nobody complained about his absence, which was almost certain.

He walked out of his bedroom later than he usually did, tired and sulky. He stubbornly ignored the piece of cake that Mrs Hudson brought them for breakfast and then he ignored John who tried to persuade him to do the last cleaning. He was wandering around the apartment like a shadow, sadly peeking at the clock and the phone – because the first one was showing that the time of guests’ arrival was coming and the second one was silent.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone but when he was heading to his bedroom to iron the shirt, he noticed that John was struggling vainly with Christmas tree lights which didn’t want to light up. _Didn’t want_ or rather _weren’t able to_ since they were plugged to an extension cord which had its plug laying on the floor instead of put in the electrical outlet. In any other situation he would ignore it but at some point his friend looked at him with clear desperation and unsaid request for help. Of course, he could just plug the lights to the power supply but he decided that a bit of showing off could improve his mood; he squatted next to John and started checking the lights one by one, listening to his friend’s complaints and groans.

“I bought them only last year” the man said accusingly. “The stores sell us more and more crap.”

“Obviously” he agreed, choking with laughter in his mind.

“A tree won’t be a _Christmas tree_ without the lights! I don’t have a time to buy a new ones! The shops are already closed and…”

“They would sell you _more crap_ ” Sherlock said with false sympathy.

“Yeah, that’d be a waste of money since they could go off in the middle of the evening.”

“Or cause a short circuit and deprive us of power.”

“Or cause a short circuit big enough to put the Christmas tree on fire and…” he paused when he finally noticed that Sherlock was biting his lips to stop the giggles. “What? You know how to fix it and I haven’t noticed something _obvious_ , have I?” he asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed the extension cord. John’s eyes started searching for anything wrong and when he noticed the plug he made a face as if he didn’t know if he should laugh at himself or be mad at Sherlock that he made fool of him. “Ok, how long did you…”

“The exact moment I saw you struggle with the lights” he said. John sighed but didn’t comment it; he pulled the extension cord toward the wall so that no one would trip over it and then he plugged the lights in. He smiled brightly when they started shining and the Christmas tree started looking proper.

“Finally! So, we’re almost done. We have to rearrange the furniture and pull out the candles… you’ll help me, right?”

“The _candles_? But we have the electricity…” he complained even though he was sure that John wouldn’t let him be and would surely force him at least to _pretend_ he is helping.

“The candles are for the mood, not for the light. Sherlock, please… Mrs Hudson hasn’t leave the kitchen since yesterday while you…” he waved his hand. “Just help me with the furniture, please” he said, looking at him strangely. Actually he didn’t _force_ Sherlock to do anything but only indicated he would be extremely disappointed if his small request wasn’t granted. 

Sherlock didn’t even realised that he automatically stood up and followed John, who started little refurbishment in their living room. It smoothly turned into pulling old tablecloths, plates and cutlery out of the wardrobes as well as discovering trinkets he had no idea they owned. He still didn’t want to help with the preparations and every now and then he glanced at his phone or bedroom’s door but he tried not to complain too much and he could say with clear conscience that he was more useful than yesterday: in the end it was him who fixed the lights, he didn’t break anything and watching the trinkets he found accidentally took him less than an hour. Of course, all of this was boring and he found it pointless but to be honest – his previous wandering around the apartment and sulking because nobody had been committing crimes was an activity just as senseless.

Oh, and when he started cleaning he discovered a present John bought him which, surprisingly, wasn’t hidden in his friend’s bedroom – Sherlock already knew all the lockers in there – but in the storage space above the bathroom. Actually it was the most satisfying moment during the whole afternoon.

When they finished embellishing the living room for the guests, Sherlock realised that it was almost _the hour zero._ He pretended to be indifferent but he’d lie if he told anyone that he wasn’t put in a Christmas mood. John was dressed in a jumper with Norwegian pattern already, in the kitchen the radio played Christmas songs, Mrs Hudson was appearing every few minutes with new dishes, which were placed in the fridge or on the shelves and the candles smelled sweetly of cinnamon and spices. Somehow between stealing some cookies and playing few carols, Sherlock managed to change dishevelled robe into ironed shirt and suit pants; than he tried finding the case which could safe him from the feast for the last time – but he didn’t even do his best since he already knew he’d stay and try to _be himself as little as possible_.

“You know…” John started, moving the wreaths on the table _again._ “Since you are staring at your phone and laptop, naively waiting for a case, maybe you use the opportunity to send someone Christmas wishes?

“Like _whom_?” he asked, shocked by the stupidity of the suggestion.

“I don’t know. Your favourite clients, colleges from Barts, your rats or…”

“If I send someone Christmas wishes they’ll surely think I’m dying or something and they will _call back_. Today I’m going to have enough interpersonal contacts for a year and I really can’t bear _more_.

“I’m sure you know someone who is at least half as antisocial as you and in hundredth part that freakish. They’d be happy to share your pain” he said ironically. He was clearly joking but his words made Sherlock think he might be right. The problem was that if there was a person who was _just like him_ it wasn’t possible for them to interact and make friends with each other since none of them would need friends and…

Oh. Yes, he hadn’t have someone _just like him_ for ages but lately they appeared. His mirror, the other side of the same coin, the genius who thought people were gold fishes without any brains. The man who – if he was forced to celebrate Christmas by some miracle – would suffer because of it even more than Sherlock.

It took him fifteen minutes to decide if contacting him was good idea and another few to establish the content of the massage. When the right words were finally in his mind he noticed in horror that John and Mrs Hudson are spinning around the apartment more and more anxious so that the guest were to appear in few minutes while Sherlock still wasn’t prepared for them psychically…! His massage to Jim Moriarty hadn’t been finished yet when he heard the doorbell rang. His fingers started moving faster, he made two typos and he barely finished writing when the door opened; he clicked “send” the exact moment Mrs Hudson started effusively greeting Molly, who was dressed up as if she was going to the Oscars ceremony.

_John claims that I should send Christmas wishes to my friends and loved ones so I do. May your Christmas be less painful and horrible than mine. And I wish myself that after this Christmas nightmare you come up with a case that will take me a week to solve. SH_

Molly, perfumed with some granny’s eau de toilette, was kissing his cheek when Sherlock got MMS with a picture of peculiarly decorated Christmas tree. It was festooned not only with traditional baubles but also with gingerbread men with icing which formed suit’s outline and random ornaments that looked like rubbish. Here and there glitter hearts were hung - they actually looked rather like Valentines decorations – the lights were in the shape of dwarfs and at tree’s peak hideous angel was stuck. Its head was made of the bauble, it had ghastly smile drawn by white felt-tip pen and beside all of this – it had little plastic machine gun glued to its front. 

_Ask your pet to pour the Christmas cake with more whisky and the party will be easier to bear. Mine did it and it worked. I’ll come up with something as soon as I recover from indigestion. JM_

Sherlock laughed quietly, knowing that it was the last time something amused him this evening. He took a deep breath and then he headed to the kitchen, poured the cake with double portion of alcohol and promised himself that it would be the only thing he would eat tonight. If Moriarty was having fun even though he probably hated Christmas – he wouldn’t  stand a thought that he wasn’t able to do the same.

 

***

 

Coffee truffles which Sebastian prepared were fantastic, as well as mincemeat pies, Christmas cake with more alcohol than the recipe recommended, chocolate cupcakes with Guinness, Irish mosaic cake, Viennese whirls and new portion of gingerbread cookies; Jim was washing all of the sweets down with lots of tea with spices that Sebastian was brewing for him. The sniper planned to prepare a normal food as well but Jim was badgering him with requests concerning his favourite sweets the whole day and in the end – he didn’t have the time to do that. As a result, when the evening came, they sat down at the table where the only things besides sweets were wine and frozen fries. Sebastian was already surfeited with sugar and he was mostly feeding on the sight of Jim, who was purring with pleasure while tasting all the pastries.

He was sure he would have indigestion because of the amount of sweets he had been devouring since yesterday – just as he wrote to Sherlock – but he hadn’t had an opportunity to eat such delights since ages and now he was recompensing. Every now and then he was catching Sebastian’s look and then he was smiling broadly and taking another sweet, which he was praising for its flavour, smell, consistency and _everything_. He supposed Sebastian heard more praises during the last day than during the whole time they knew each other.

“If I had known you were such amazing cook I would have forced you to move in ten years age and wouldn’t have let you leave the kitchen even for a moment” he said and Sebastian laughed loudly.

“I you had been eating that many sweets for so long now you would have weighed two times more. Wine? It’s _dry_ ” he said reaching for a glass.

“Right. A half-hour break from sweets. If I will manage” he said and then he ate a cold fry and washed it down with wine. He stretched on the armchair, raising his eyebrows, when Sebastian smirked at him and left the room to come back a minute later with a pile of boxes in different sizes and shapes. He placed them on the carpet in the middle of the room and waved at Jim, smiling so broadly that his cheeks surely hurt.  

“That’s all for me?” Jim asked surprised, staring at the pile of presents with a frown.

“No” Sebastian said and he nodded to Jim to sit down on the carpet. “I bought presents _for you from me_ and _for me from you_ as well since I had been sure you wouldn’t bother to give me anything.”

“You’ll get financial bonus for Christmas which will be big enough to afford an island or space travel. What have you bought _for me_?” he asked, completely unbothered by Sebastian’s allusion. Well, he thought the idea of _buying gifts for himself on behalf of Jim_ was a bit touching but he would never say it aloud.

“I’m going to open presents _for me from you_ first” he said and then he took big, oblong box which looked heavy; he shook it, smiled broadly and started ripping the paper off. “Jim, thank you so much!” he exclaimed, staring at the big, black case which he opened moment later and took a brand new Barrett out.

“What model is it?” Jim asked stretching his hand to carefully stroke the barrel of the gun, amused by Sebastian’s enthusiasm concerning a present he bought _himself_. To be honest, the sight of a man in a t-shirt stained with a flour and chocolate, who was admiring the sniper weapon like a child who got a new toy was hilarious. 

“Factory new M107A1. It’s still warm!” he said, _hugging_ the gun to his cheek. “I’ve been dreaming about it since my last birthday, when I bought a leather jacket _for me from you_.” He smiled and Jim felt, for a short moment, that maybe someday he should think about something more than a cash transfer. It wasn’t that he felt a remorse or anything like that but he really wanted to see Sebastian’s expression when he would get something from him.

“So… what did you buy _for me from you_?” he asked when Sebastian’s raptures about the present ceased and he placed the gun back in the case.

“What you could buy a man who’s got everything?”

“So I won’t get anything?” he asked looking at the boxes. “Anything I could unpack and…”

“I bought you tons of boring trinkets but I do it anyway during everyday shopping and you don’t even notice they appear on your shelves. Perfumes, CDs, ties, socks. You’ll open it later” he said, standing up. He smoothed his pants and offered Jim a hand. “We’re going to start with something that you’ll remember for years. Come on!” he said with emphasis when Jim started getting up with no intention to take his hand. Sebastian rolled his eyes and, ignoring Jim’s protests, grabbed his wrist, headed to the exit door and forced him to get dressed. When they were outside, he took Jim’s hand and started dragging him into the yard surrounded by the forest. In normal circumstances he wouldn’t dare for such intimacy but the Christmas mood and alcohol gave him the courage to do so and ignore the fact that Jim wasn’t cooperating; he rarely used his psychical advantage over his boss and when the smaller man stopped and demanded explanation, he turned around and looked at him pleadingly. “You’ll like it. I promise” he said and gently squeezed Jim’s hand, waiting for him to move.

Pale lamps run by a photocell had been lighting up until they reached the flat area without bushes and trees. Jim’s sight was already used to the dusk when they finally stopped. Sebastian stood beside him, turn the further lights on with a remote and then he placed his hands on Jim’s shoulders to turn him gently and point to a place in front of them. Jim raised his eyebrows when he saw an old off-road car few dozen feet away from them. It had been breaking down for months and after an action few weeks ago it stopped forever but his sniper - despite Jim’s screams and other demonstrations of rage – refused to export the car to a scram yard.

“You hate this car” Sebastian said quietly, leaning towards Jim and warming his neck with his breath.

“More than anything else” he stated honestly and shuddered when Sebastian stroked his shoulder and placed little item in his hand.

“Take it” he said and Jim realised he was holding small remote with a single button. “Fireworks for Christmas. _From me, for you_.  Do the honours, boss” he whispered and, to Jim’s astonishment, hugged him from behind and rested his chin on his shoulder. Without the wine and whisky from the cake, Jim would have pushed him out, forbidden him such nonsense and sent him on some long, pointless mission but right now… he wasn’t able to do nor say anything. Sebastian gave him a present which no-one else would have given, he was trying so hard to please him and… he was cold, his shoes were soaking in the snow but Sebastian’s embrace was warming him and it was giving him strange pleasure he hadn’t felt for _ages_.

“Did you secure the area?” he asked even though he knew the answer.

“I can plant a bomb just as effectively as shoot.”

“And bake” Jim said rolling the remote between his fingers. Finally he peeked at Sebastian face which were an inch from his. “Thank you” he added so quiet he was barely heard; then he looked at the car, grinned and with a great satisfaction pressed the button.

The car exploded with loud bang and sparks and remains of metal flew around the yard but Sebastian must have checked it all because they stood far enough that they didn’t reach them. The flames burst into the air and at the same moment the sky was lighten up with colourful fireworks while countless firecrackers started exploding one by one; all of them formed a loud, sparkling and spectacular mix which lasted a minute or two and – if they didn’t live at such seclusion – would be surely noticed by their neighbours and reported to the police.

Jim was staring at the show with delight, smiling and squeezing the remote in his hand. He pretended he didn’t notice when Sebastian got closer to him and hugged him tightly from behind… after all the closeness didn’t disturb him anymore, when they were standing in cold and darkness, watching the burning wreck and listening the last, small explosions. Everything went quiet again and soon the only things that left after all these explosions and fireworks were flames and a lot of smoke; few moments later the drenchers turned on and started to extinguish the fire. After five minutes they were standing in the dusk again, none of them moving. The criminal still let the taller man to cuddle him and didn’t complain when he nestled his face into Jim’s collar and hair and was rubbing the nape of his neck with unshaven chin.

“Are we getting back?” he finally asked and Jim nodded; this time he gave the sniper his hand without a persuasion but with a smile, which surprised Sebastian.

“Yes. I want to open the rest of the presents, even if they are boring trinkets” he answered and moments later they were going back to the house, where they quickly removed outer clothing and wet shoes and headed to the living room.

Jim stopped when he reached the door. His apartment was still decorated with tacky decorations, the Christmas tree was an eyesore and torn paper from the box with Barrett was lying on the floor - the last one should have been maddening but somehow it wasn’t. The table was still set with sweets and alcohol, the presents waited to be opened and he realised _again_ , that it was the first time in his life when someone cared about him enough to prepare Christmas _just for him_. Well, yeah, he might have hated it since childhood but this time it was different because _Sebastian was different_. He made all his unspoken wishes come true, baked him his favourites cakes and blew the dilapidated car up – just like that, not for money or because of the threats but to please him _in Christmas time_.

“Are you coming?” Sebastian asked, noticing that Jim wasn’t moving but only looking around the living room.

“Come here” he answered, leaning against the doorframe and looking at the mistletoe which was put up right above him. “That thing… Did you want to suggest me something?” he asked calmly when Sebastian came closer and stood in front of him. Jim smirked, noticing that this tall, dangerous hitman suddenly looked small and scared. “You put it up everywhere so I presume you had a reason to do so” he finished and raised his chin. “Hm?”

“I can take it down and we’ll continue to unwrap the presents…” he suggested and begrudgingly reached out towards the dubious decoration but Jim stopped him.

“Let’s get over with it” he said and turned his head a bit, leaning against the doorframe more comfortably and crossing his arms. “Come on. Bow down. I hate standing on my toes.”

“On your… toes?” Sebastian uttered, probably not believing his own ears.

“We’re underneath the mistletoe and you are almost ten inches taller than me. It’s _obvious_ that I’d have to stand on my toes” he said and took a deep breath. He forced a smile, not wanting to scare Sebastian off with his impassive face expression.

“And you really won’t get mad if I kiss you…?” he asked as if he thought that Jim was provoking him to have an excuse to make a scene.

“I didn’t when you were clinging to me outside nor when you turned our house into Christmas muddle” he said but Sebastian only raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “Ok, I did. But I’m over it. You’re a great cook and the present was wonderful. I’m in a good mood, let’s say… _Christmas mood_.” He laughed and, seeing that Sebastian still didn’t believe him, put a hand on the back of his neck. He was staring at the taller man with anticipation and a little bit of impatience, because he wanted to get it over with and see if Sebastian, who usually pushed his sentiments and emotions aside, would dare to give vent to them.

“You’ve never been interested in… such things” he said quietly, bowing down towards Jim; he placed his hand, scratched after the struggle with Christmas tree, on his neck and gently caressed the skin in there with his thumb.

“I’m not sure if I’m interested _now_ , but I hope you’ll taste like coffee truffles so it won’t be that bad” he said and somehow these words convinced Sebastian, who leaned to Jim and put his free arm around him. He didn’t move, only staring at him with his bright blue eyes and when Jim was opening his mouth to order him to get down to the business, he bowed his head even lower and silenced him with a kiss.

Jim expected silly tenderness which wouldn’t affect him at all, he was afraid it would be boring and slushy and that Sebastian would think that it was a promise of a new start or – god forbid! – romantic sex. That the rest of the night will be forced and embarrassing for both of them and finally, that he would lose caring and funny Sebastian for at least few days because the man would sink into his sentiments and become completely unbearable.

But yet, Sebastian, instead of turning into fluffy, infatuated ball, kissed him intensely and hugged him tightly, just like energetic criminal and excellent sniper he was, not some annoying moron controlled by sentiments and romanticism. He smiled broadly, and when Jim wrapped his arms around his neck, he chuckled; he clung to his boss even tighter, clenching fingers on Jim’s hair without unnecessary gentleness and pressing his other hand on his back. He was slightly aroused and probably wanted more but didn’t protest when Jim, after a minute or so, pushed him away and announced that he wanted to unpack _all those boring ties_.

He let Sebastian lead him to the carpet in front of the fireplace, took a glass of wine and accepted a gingerbread cookie in the shape of _consulting criminal_ ; they unwrap the rest of the presents, turned on the TV and then Jim was listening Sebastian’s singing for half an hour. Mariah Carey’s hit still had wrong lyrics and the Jingle Bells’ melody but Jim didn’t complain. Still, all those notes sang completely out of tune were tiring, so he stood up and started wandering around the room, taking photos of items, sweets and ornaments. Well… he had already saved them in his mind palace and he supposed they would stay in there forever but he wanted to have something more tangible as a reminder of this night.

It was already past midnight when second bottle of wine had been drunk and then… heading towards the same bedroom seemed to be the most natural thing in the world and what came next – one of the most satisfying and entertaining experience he had ever had, even though few days ago he would have said that he would have to be totally desperate to have sex with his sniper. It wasn’t boring nor slow, it wasn’t sloppy nor romantic; he got a mix of gentleness and energy in ideal proportions, every kiss was just perfect and every touch came where it should. At the end, when he was clanging to Sebastian, who was moving between his legs, while their moans were forecasting an orgasm, Jim realised that if sex looked like that every time he would decide to have it more often.

They were breathing heavily and chuckling at the same time, when they laid on the bed after they intercourse, staring at the ceiling; they didn’t talk about it but they were both satisfied and absolutely sure that it wasn’t the last time. Before Jim decided to go asleep, he had taken his mobile which laid on the floor, to check if his criminal web didn’t need him and to send one last message. Sebastian hugged him from behind, touching Jim’s back with his naked, muscled chest and started nipping his neck, which was already bruised with hickeys. He glanced at the phone screen and snorted when he noticed that Jim put the photo with the mistletoe to MMS.

The next occasion to give someone dear a present was Valentine’s Day and when Jim was falling asleep in bedding which smelled of sweet spices in Sebastian’s warm embrace, he tried to decide which roadster he would buy him to replace the one they had blown up few hours ago.

 

***

 

Sherlock didn’t like lying to himself. He couldn’t stand the guests but he tried to behave for the sake of John, who was pleading him to do so with his every look and it was becoming more and more tiring. Maybe the Molly’s presence wouldn’t be that bad, even though she was sending sidelong glances full of hope to Lestrade – strange, that he hadn’t noticed them until now; the inspector himself was easy to tolerate, as well as Mrs Hudson but when it came to the rest of their guests… that wasn’t easy at all. Their landlady invited her sorrowful and extremely boring neighbour, whose grandchildren had decided they preferred skiing in Switzerland rather than visiting her, while Lestrade dragged Donovan out of pity since otherwise she would have spent this Christmas alone. As if that was not enough – in the middle of the feast his brother showed up, to give everyone dry and insincere _best wishes_. Than he gave out expensive gifts to all the guests, including those that no-one expected and ate a tiny slice of cake, even though he was gazing wistfully at the rest of the sweets. Fortunately, he stayed only for twenty minutes, so it didn’t worsen Sherlock’s mood, which was bad already.

Sherlock was suffering but managed to bear it all. Before the feast started he had followed Moriarty’s advice, poured the Christmas cake with more alcohol and had been drinking lots of wine which finally switched his mood to _I-don’t-care-at-all_. A little tipsy, he played few carols on his violin – he made few mistakes but nobody noticed and everyone was singing to the accompaniment. He was peeking at the clock and at John, at his plate and his glass, counting seconds until 10 p.m., naively hoping that at that time the guest would start leaving – but to his horror, at the time nobody made any sigh that they wanted to go home. He put another piece of alcohol cake on his plate and then he slipped into the kitchen and improved the Christmas cake with another glass of whisky. He was almost sure, that it would burn on fire if he threw a match on it… he quickly got rid of such ideas for he knew that John wouldn’t be pleased if he experimented on food during the Christmas dinner.

He counted _seconds_ until 11 p.m., slowly becoming more drunk than just tipsy. Alcohol helped indeed. All the pathetic jokes didn’t bother him that much, as well as Donovan’s presence; while he was counting time until midnight, the jokes became amusing and sluggish advances of Lestrade and Molly started looking _cute_. Cute…! He decided that if _anything_ looked cute to him it was a high time to stop drinking. Luckily, half an hour later – actually he wasn’t sure of the time for the clock looked a bit blurred – the guest _finally_ started leaving and few minutes later the best moment of the evening came: the last of them close the door and the only person that left in the apartment was John.

Most of the food had been given to the guests or put in the fridge, the living room was superficially cleaned by John and then he and Sherlock sat facing each other at the fireplace, while the radio was quietly playing in the kitchen. John took a bottle of expensive bourbon, which Mycroft had given him, announcing that he didn’t want to wait for a special occasion to open it. They were drinking slowly, John was staring at the fire and Sherlock – was calculating in his mind _how much_ his brother had spent to buy all the presents he gave their guests. That’s how the British government wastes taxpayers money…!

“So, they finally left, didn’t they?” John asked, drawing Sherlock’s attention to himself. “You’ve been dreaming about that moment the whole evening. Don’t deny!”

“I’m not going to deny” he said, bowing towards John the exact moment he did the same. Their faces suddenly were inches away so they quickly and with a bit of embarrassment moved away and Sherlock desperately searched for any topic that would wash the uneasiness away. “My brother sleeps with Anthea” he said, which instantly changed the mood.

“W-what?” John gasped, completely shocked by the news. „But he… and she…” he started, unable to say anything more coherent. “How?” he asked, for which Sherlock gave him an awkward look. “When they…”

“A month ago… five weeks at most” Sherlock answered when he had finally got specific question. “He came here because he wanted to tell me about it.”

“What? He didn’t say a word about her!” John protested. “I was standing next to you the whole time he was in there to separate you if you would have been at each other’s throat.”

“He told me with his presence alone” Sherlock said. “There was a characteristic ribbon on your bourbon, which Mycroft had bought long time ago to wrap a present for my birthday six years ago. It was limited edition made by a company that doesn’t exist anymore. Mycroft rarely give private presents to anyone and almost never wraps them himself but this one had been wrapped out of the store. It’s Mycroft’s ribbon for sure but, even though he is right-handed, he ties lances and curls ribbons the opposite way for he broke his right wrist when he was five and learnt it as if he was left-handed. This one was curled by someone right-handed, by a _woman_ , given the way the paper is folded.

“But… it didn’t have to be Anthea nor anyone close to him, he might hire…

“Come on, it was her” Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes. “There was a scratch of nail polish on Molly’s gift and it’s shade was in the exact colour as Mycroft’s tie. He never wears this shade of red so it had to be a present as well. He wore it for the first time and besides he didn’t tie it himself. Someone else did, someone smaller than him, it’s obvious. Someone who bought him a tie in the shade of their favourite nail polish” he finished with emphasis.

“I still don’t get why you think it was her” John insisted, probably not wanting to accept the fact that a man like Mycroft… well, dates a woman like Anthea. “Any woman can have a red nail polish and buy her boyfriend a matching tie.”

“But I’ve known Anthea for seven years and I deduced that she only paints her nails when she has a date or goes to an official banquet” Sherlock said, letting all the deduction he has been suppressing the whole evening get out. “She uses only one brand, Guerlain, a shade called Rouge d'Enfer… Red of Hell, the funniest joke she has ever made. She painted her nails and wrapped Mycroft’s presents which she could _theoretically_ do as his assistant and then have a date with someone else. But he bought him a tie so she sleeps with him.

“You deduce your brother has an affair because you saw a scratch of nail polish on your friend’s gift” John murmured with astonishment.

“Well… that was a hint for sure. But the most important thing was the hickey on his neck and Anthea waiting for him in the car parked in front of our house. I saw her tapping her _hellish_ _red_ fingernails on the smartphone, surely asking him to take a piece of cake for her” he said and John snorted indignantly that Sherlock made fun of him _again_. “A minute later Mycroft took out his phone and told Mrs Hudson that he would take a box of pastries to take away after all, even though earlier he had refused to do so.

“Sherlock…” John started and laughed loudly but the detective ignored it, craving to finish deductions he was holding back the whole evening to avoid pissing everyone off with his snootiness.

“Her scarf was of the same shade of red and it was a present from Mycroft, who had noticed the nail polish and decided to buy her something stylish which would match her nails on official meetings.”

“I can imagine his face expression when he realised they both bough presents of the same colour” John laughed, taking an empty glass from Sherlock to refill it.

“I presume the scarf and the tie weren’t the only red things they bought as a Christmas presents” Sherlock said which caused John to almost choke with the liquid he was drinking.

“I… don’t want to know, am I?”

“I didn’t wanted as well but…”

“And I don’t want to know how you deduced it” he said and then both of them became silent, imaging Mycroft and Anthea undressing from their posh, dull, formal clothes in neutral colours and the moment they’re both only in bright red underwear. They shivered at the same time and in the end cut the topic. “You know? Tonight you were quiet decent… for you. You didn’t run out of the house to chase Irene Adler, you didn’t find a new case nor sit with the laptop the whole evening… and you stayed with us at all. _Thank you_ ” he said. “You were almost nice even to Donovan even though I didn’t  required that much” he finished with amusement.

“I had to bite my tongue at least thousand times to restrain myself from asking her about Anderson’s wife. Oh, and her parents she didn’t visit because she was too ashamed to come alone another consecutive year” he said and John raised his eyebrows. “She had told them before that she was with her boyfriend and Lestrade, as a great friend and boss, had mercy on her and took her to us because he didn’t want her to stay at home alone” he continued with boredom. “The story about her family visiting some relatives in Scotland, which she told Molly, is a bullshit. But! I decided that once I year I can try _not be myself_ and refrain from humiliating her.”

“So… what more have you deduced about our guests?” John asked a moment later, not wanting to talk about Donovan anymore for he wasn’t really fond of her as well. “But please… I don’t want to hear anything about Mycroft ‘cause I’ve already heard enough. But I’d like you to deduce something for me since, to be honest, I miss it a bit.

“I deduced that Lestrade’s first name is Greg” he said sipping the bourbon.

“Wait. What?”

“I know, I was surprised as well” he admitted; still, he was absolutely sure that he would forget it until morning. “But I deduced it…”

“Sherlock, I know perfectly well what his name is and I have no idea why you needed deduction to realise it…!”

“Molly bought him perfume” he said with a strange feeling that he is more drunk than he has thought; he wobbled and rested his hand on John’s knee to avoid hitting the floor. “And that’s why his name is Greg.”

“I don’t think I want to know how exactly you deduced it” John said, glaring at Sherlock’s hand which the detective didn’t withdrawn even though he had already regained his balance.

“And the jumper he bought you should have been écru, not pale grey” he mumbled. He moved his fingers and looked at John’s face, a bit reddish because of the amount of alcohol he had drunk. “If he tries to convince you that I had advised him what colour he should choose, don’t believe him.

“You know? Maybe we should leave our guests alone” John said and chuckled nervously as if he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

“Hm…?”

“Deduce _me_ ” he asked and make a strange gesture; some bourbon splashed on the carpet but he seemed not to notice it. “Now. What are you seeing?”

“You are more drunk than me” Sherlock murmured, realising he was still holding John’s knee and that he actually didn’t want to withdraw it for he had a strange feeling that _it was exactly where it belonged_. “You didn’t invite your…”

“Anne.”

“Anne” Sherlock repeated, remembering annoying women with shrill laughter. “You broke up with her two weeks ago and the only reason was the fact that you didn’t know what to buy her for Christmas and every time you went to the store you found presents for other people but not for her. Eventually you wrote to her that maybe you needed a break and she still haven’t written back.”

“How…”

“I followed you three times or so” he confessed and tightened his fingers when the weird unbalance came back but this time it wasn’t only the side effect of alcohol. “You were stopping at the front of music store every single time even though you had already bought me new strings and cleaning kit.”

“You didn’t unwrap a gift from me, so how…”

“When I was checking your mobile I found a photo of my violin so you took it to show it to the salesman so that he recognise a brand. And besides I found the present when I was cleaning” he said, shrugging his arms and ignoring John’s indigent look. “I put the gift for you into the box because I didn’t feel like wrapping it myself. And I didn’t want to give it to you when everyone was there since I hadn’t bought a present for anyone but you.”

“It would be really rude” John said quietly and put the glass aside to avoid wasting more alcohol. He didn’t know what to do with his hands and in the end he placed them on his knees. For a few seconds he was trying to avoid touching Sherlock’s fingers but finally he sighed and covered detective’s raw-boned hand with his and then he started gently entwining their fingers together.

“To avoid such rudeness… we can spend the next Christmas alone” Sherlock said, staring at their hands with combination of surprise, excitement and strange sentiment.

“So that it would be just like it is now? Only you and me?” John laughed but he sounded a bit hesitant and evidently wasn’t sure if he should have said these words.

“Against the rest of the world” Sherlock added, realising their faces were only inches away.

“I don’t see the rest of the world in here” John said, looking around nervously as if he was afraid he would actually _see_ someone.

“Fortunately _the rest of the world_ left an hour ago.” They both fell silent after Sherlock’s words, staring at each other while the only sound they heard was a radio playing in the kitchen.

“Turn it down” Josh whispered when he realised that the radio was the only part of _the rest of the world_ that was breaking their intimacy. “Play me something. And give me the present you bought me.

“I’m not feeling like standing up” he said and stopped John when he tried to do so.

“I want to know what you…”

“I developed the pictures I took at every place we had had a case. We are visible in some of them since you never noticed I was taking them while pretending to check something on the phone. You’ll chose a photo album yourself.”

“I want…”

“You’ll see it tomorrow” he interrupted and took a bottle to raise their glasses for the last time but at the exact moment his phone twinkled and the icon of new massage appeared on the screen. He would have ignored it but his friends automatically took the mobile and when Sherlock nodded, he opened the SMS and frowned.

“ _I’m sure you haven’t put up any so I’m sending you an e-version. I strongly recommend using it. Merry Christmas. JM_ ” John read. “Oh my god. Moriarty sends you…” he stopped and his eyes grew bigger when he scrolled the massage and saw some picture. In the end he didn’t finished the sentence and only moved the phone to show Sherlock a photo of the mistletoe.

“Oh…” Sherlock managed to say with no idea if this silly massage from his so-called archenemy didn’t spoil the best moment of the Christmas.

“Well…” John started and gently put the mobile aside. “I guess that’s the one and only time I should listen to him” he said and then he bowed towards Sherlock and kissed him with no hesitation, closing his eyes and tightening his fingers.

It took the detective few minutes to realize what was happening and when he did, he put his free hand on the back of John’s neck and started slowly returning the kiss. The only coherent thought that left in his mind intoxicated with emotions was the realization that all those housework, arguments, reproaches, guests and Christmas noise… it was worth to bear them if the reward was  _this moment_.

And, well… that _the whole year would be Christmas_ if every day ended like that.

 

***


End file.
